


Asphyxiation

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Cyanide poisoning, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Nightmares, Pining, Prompt Fill, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2021-01-26 23:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21382306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Staying with the Aga Morat (Baron Morgan in the AU) - Jerott is troubled by recent events and by his growing feelings for Marthe. Marthe has other fish to fry...FollowsDeliriumandAdrenaline.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Relationships: Güzel/Marthe (Lymond Chronicles), Jerott Blyth/Marthe (Lymond Chronicles)
Kudos: 2
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Asphyxiation

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, October 19 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188448507894/whumptober-19)

Sleep should have been easy after all Jerott had been through. He arrived in the motel bed blank with exhaustion, ready for a comfortable surface and a long night snoring under the soft glow of a reading lamp.

Instead his dreams were filled with billowing smoke and the taste of burnt almonds, and everywhere a fire that seemed to crackle with Gabriel’s rolling laughter. He was restless but remained locked inside the choking visions, his body fighting the poison he had inhaled as sound-proofed walls burned. Moreover, there had been no thought of drink when he had been ushered by many hands into his room, and he had been left with the shakes of withdrawal on top of the sluggishness from the cyanide. His temperature rose and made him think he was still trapped in the burning nightclub. His blood held greedily onto the oxygen it could get, weakening his limbs and making his heavy breathing inefficient. In dreams his mouth filled with ash and he gagged on it beneath the boots of the officers who had taken one look at him and assumed the fire had been his fault.

He finally managed to scrabble back to consciousness by following the sound of his own screams. It turned out that nothing but the sheet was weighing him down, and that lying face-first in the pillow had not improved his already impaired breathing.

He pushed himself shakily to his elbows and rubbed his face. So much for the shower he’d taken before sleep: his skin was awash with sweat again, and even with the light on the edges of his vision crawled with threatening shadows.

Jerott sat up and examined his trembling arms. Some of the blisters needed better care than they had yet had: brown skin gave way to pink welts, surrounded by areas of smooth tenderness where the thick hair had been scorched from his body. He swore at their complaints - first aid was something he still lacked the energy for.

Beneath a cold shower that stung his wounds and made imagined creatures skitter over ragged nerve endings his slow mind finally realised that he did not have to suffer like this. Struck at once with hope, and a desperate need that he had long forgotten to be ashamed of, Jerott barely remembered to switch off the water as he left the bathroom, dripping carelessly on carpet and soft furnishings as he ransacked the room.He peered inside every cupboard and even tried beneath the bed. He was repeatedly disappointed, however.

“Shit,” he sighed, kneeling by his duffle bag and cursing the cheapness of motel rooms. There was no mini fridge; no mini bar.

No matter. They had stopped at Baron Scott Morgan’s ‘Oasis’ in the desert because the owner ran a watering hole next to his motel - a place at which musicians might perform in order to pay for their accommodation.

Heedless of the time of night, Jerott pulled on the cleanest clothes he could find - tight blue jeans and a plain t-shirt. He stuffed his bare feet into sneakers and clattered from the room with a single, defining need.

It was late and the complex was dark. The motel rooms were in a squat block overlooking a large swathe of tarmac, on the other side of which was the timber-clad hall that housed the bar. A single dim light barely affected the shadowy car park, and any rooms in the motel that were lit had the curtains firmly closed. The main source of illumination was the swimming pool to the side of the motel.

Jerott was halfway across the acres of carpark when he met someone coming the other way. Marthe looked as though she might have changed her path to avoid the encounter, but then she relented and let him approach. She held a bottle of wine and two glasses, and the sight made Jerott’s confused heart thump hard against his ribcage.

“Do you need some help drinking that?” he offered a frustratingly shaky grin that made Marthe wince.

“I have help, thanks.”

He had turned to speak to her as she continued to move past him, and noticed now that someone was standing silhouetted by the glowing blue pool. A woman, it looked like: fitted skirt and long hair was all the detail he could see.

“Bar’s closed,” Marthe told him. “But our host is still around. He was asking to see you, actually.”

He watched her leave. She was bare-footed and didn’t flinch at the tarmac, just sauntered away with her long legs and a gentle sway in her movement. It left him doubting that the poison was the sole cause of his symptoms.


End file.
